


My Type

by StarlightAndFireflies



Series: How Novel [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Time, Implied Sexual Content, John has glasses, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mystery Stories, Romance, Sherlock is infatuated with said glasses, Unilock, Writer John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 08:14:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17597603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAndFireflies/pseuds/StarlightAndFireflies
Summary: After the book signing, Sherlock and John have their first date as official boyfriends. Then, the next morning, John gets to know a bit more about some of the people in Sherlock's life.





	My Type

Sherlock and John linger over their meal at Angelo’s for ages. Their animated conversation meanders, drifting from Sherlock’s classes to a bit about John’s new story idea. Sherlock provides feedback about the latter, eyes lighting up and hands gesticulating, even though John provides only scant details. Meanwhile, John can only sit and listen and nod when Sherlock gets going about chemistry halfway through their main course.

After Sherlock’s suggestion of wine, John suggests a dessert as well. As it’s their first date as official boyfriends — a thought that sends giddy shivers through John — he feels they can indulge a bit.

So they chat and grin and taste each other’s food. They finish the bottle of wine with their pasta, then spend nearly an hour lingering over cups of rich coffee and the cannoli John decided to order for them. The moment Sherlock bites into the chocolate cream one is the moment John learns about his boyfriend’s rather voracious sweet tooth. His eyes roll back into his head, and he lets out a groan of contentment. John watches in amusement, then laughs when Sherlock opens his eyes and — seeing John’s eyes on him — blushes scarlet.

Despite that, Sherlock does seem a little less guarded tonight. Yes, he still ducks his head on occasion, laughs softly rather than freely, and bites his lip as if afraid to share his opinions in too much detail. But despite all that, his conversation does come with more confidence, less self-consciousness. And his conversation is marvelous, intelligent and charming and fascinating, even the scientific bit that John does not understand.

And he wonders — how can someone so obviously brilliant also be so unsure and self-effacing? Why has it taken half a bottle of wine, several dates, and many hours, for him to start to open up?

Then again, he and Sherlock have really only known each other for a few days, even if it has felt like years. Is it really so surprising that Sherlock is still a bit insecure?

At several points, the owner of the restaurant, Angelo, comes to their table and gushes over Sherlock. From what John can glean, Sherlock had once done the jolly man a significant favour, though neither of them say precisely what it was. Still, Angelo shakes John’s hand with great enthusiasm, later bustles over with a cheerfully flickering candle, and then refuses to let either of them pay for the meal.

John and Sherlock at last leave the restaurant — with another batch of cannoli in a takeaway box thrust into their hands by Angelo on their way out the door. By this time, evening has arrived. The sun is retreating steadily behind the rooftops of London. As they walk through the streets, John thinks back to their earlier conversation.

_“Did you really mean it?”_

_“I— I did. That is… if you did.”_

_“You heard…?”_

_“I did. I didn’t… didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”_

_“That’s alright. And... really, it’s good, I’m glad we’re on the same page.”_

The conversation reverberates through John’s mind on a loop as he walks. As he walks with _Sherlock_ , his newly minted boyfriend. John bites down on an elated grin; he already loves the sound of that, even just in his head. He also loves the feeling of Sherlock’s fingers once again intertwined with his as they proceed along the pavement.

“So where are we going now,” John asks, “boyfriend?”

The term elicits quite an endearing reaction from Sherlock: he bites down on his lower lip and looks down and away. The innocent shyness of that move makes John squeeze the man’s hand and nudge his shoulder lightly.

“I…” Sherlock has to clear his throat and swallow before his voice can come out not croaky. “I was thinking we could go to my flat. It’s not far from here.”

“Yeah?” John is surprised. “That would be okay?”

Sherlock nods. He is still blushing, which John is beginning to suspect might be his near-constant state, at least around John.

“Lead the way then, boyfriend,” John declares, just to watch Sherlock’s flustered expression show itself once more.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock leads him to Baker Street of all places. Ahead, John catches sight of a red awning belonging to a small café. As he and Sherlock pass by, John glances in the window and inhales the smell. Sandwiches, soup, pastries. Everything looks delicious, despite how full John is. He peers through the window with interest, but Sherlock does not even stop to look.

He does stop at a door, though, mere steps past the café. Only when he pulls a key out of his pocket does John realize—

“You live _here_?” John exclaims. How does a uni student afford a flat in this area?

“I’m full of surprises,” Sherlock flashes him a smirk. However, his cheeks are still pink, and John finds himself too distracted by that pleasing shade to reply. So he stands and watches as Sherlock unlocks the door, then follows his boyfriend inside.

He barely takes in the space within — a small foyer with a door to one side, coat hooks on the other, and a staircase ahead — before Sherlock comes to a stop. John looks up at him, smiling.

“What is it?”

Sherlock shifts his weight from one foot to the other, pressing his lips together as if trying to suppress a wide grin and not quite succeeding. “So, we’re boyfriends.”

“Yeah,” John chuckles, stepping closer. “What about it?”

“So, may I kiss you?” he asks.

John blinks. “You don’t have to ask me, Sherlock.”

Apparently, contrary to John’s belief, Sherlock _can_ blush harder. “So, does that mean yes?”

Instead of replying with words, John closes the distance between them and seals his lips over Sherlock’s. Without hesitation, Sherlock’s hand comes up to cradle John’s face, and he parts his lips. Their tongues touch and then entwine, and Sherlock moans. Emboldened, John presses Sherlock against the wall and utterly plunders his new boyfriend’s mouth, which tastes astounding — wine and chocolate and desire.

When he can bear the lack of air no longer, he pulls back, gasping. Sherlock continues to drop kisses onto John’s face and neck between his own rapid breaths. In response, John drags his fingers through that damn irresistible hair. He tilts his head back.

“We should probably go all the way inside your flat,” he says, winded and exhilarated.

“Mm, yes.” But Sherlock doesn’t move.

“Isn’t Mrs. Hudson your landlady?” John tries again. “Is she going to walk in on us out here?”

“No,” Sherlock’s tone is distracted. He appears to be more interested in using his mouth for exploring the curve of John’s collarbone than for speech. “She told me as she was leaving your signing that she had to go shopping and then was going to bridge with her friends. So she won’t be back for a while yet.”

“Oh,” John says, though it comes out mostly as a sigh. (Sherlock has just tugged him even closer, clutching at his hips, and he now couldn’t care less where Mrs. Hudson has gone.) “Well then.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, amusement saturating his voice. He lifts his head to meet John’s gaze, and beneath the desire in his expression, John thinks he can discern a thread of insecurity. “Would you like to come up?”

He nods toward the stairs behind them, an unsure yet hopeful gesture. John kisses him again, lingering and gentle yet also clear in his wanting. “Oh God, yes.”

Sherlock’s face lights up.

 

* * *

 

Their journey upstairs is giggly and full of fond caresses and quick kisses. John, were he not dazed from strong wine and delicious food and heady snogs, might have looked around at his surroundings. However, he _is_ dazed, and only has eyes for the lithe, blushing figure in his arms.

Sherlock tugs him down the hall into a bedroom. John barely gets a look at the periodic table poster on the wall, the stack of books atop the chest of drawers, before shifting his gaze back to his boyfriend.

“John,” Sherlock breathes. His chest heaves, and his eyes are wide and dark.

John smiles, shuts the door, and goes to him. He trails his hands down Sherlock’s sides, feeling him shiver beneath the touch.

They kiss for a few long moments in the middle of the room like that, until John feels Sherlock tense slightly. He pulls back.

“Are you sure about this?” John asks, brushing back the curls that have fallen across Sherlock’s forehead.

“I am,” Sherlock murmurs. “If… that is, if you are.”

He swallows, and John’s heart clenches at the sight. “Hey,” he says. “We can go as slow as you like. We can just—”

“No,” Sherlock shakes his head. “I don’t want to just kiss.” He blinks then, as if surprised at his own boldness.

John giggles. “Still, we’ve got all night. You can relax.”

Sherlock lets out a slow, not entirely steady breath. “I don’t usually do this, you know.”

“That’s okay.” John kisses his cheek. “Like I said, we’ve got all night.”

He can feel the tension in Sherlock’s body loosening. Emboldened, he presses a light kiss to his collarbone, and is pleased when Sherlock lets out a startled little groan.

“Y-yes we do,” Sherlock says. “But here…”

He guides them to the bed, but John is the one who lies down first. Once he’s comfortable, he grins and opens his arms in invitation. Sherlock smiles, a little shyly, and crawls next to him. Emotions glimmer in his eyes — want, trepidation, and something akin to wonder.

He gazes at John as if his mere presence in Sherlock’s arms is a sort of miracle.

That expression makes John’s heart squeeze in his chest, makes him want to shift forward and wrap himself around Sherlock and assure him he is just utterly marvelous.

So John does just that.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, the first thought in John’s mind when he wakes is that this cannot possibly be his own bed. His bed doesn’t have such smooth, luxurious sheets on it. And his mattress isn’t quite so comfortable either. Apparently, he has been missing out on whatever thread count this is.

He rolls over lazily and opens his eyes. Sherlock isn’t there, having got up a short while ago. He’d half-woken John with a kiss to the cheek and a whisper of greeting, but John had drifted back asleep almost instantly. Now, he assumes only ten minutes or so have passed; he can hear the shower still running in the next room.

John lies there, letting his eyes drift closed again and listening to the fall of the water. A small — probably giddy — smile spreads across his face as images of the previous day dance before his closed eyelids. Spending time with Sherlock, selling almost two dozen books, putting his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders in the bookstore, speaking with fans, eating dinner with Sherlock, meeting Mrs. Hudson, declaring Sherlock as his boyfriend…

Yes, all in all, a fantastic day.

The evening had been surprisingly romantic too. Everything between him and Sherlock had gone smoothly, or at least as smoothly as things can go for a new couple. Their mutual declaration of being boyfriends seems to have injected Sherlock with greater confidence than before, though John wonders how long it will last.

John rolls over with a sigh and swings his legs over the side of the bed. Surprising Sherlock with a cup of tea sounds like a good idea, so John finds a soft burgundy dressing gown draped over a chair and proceeds into the kitchen, shrugging it on. He puts the kettle on to boil and glances into the sitting room, intrigued. And so he examines the space where Sherlock lives for the first time.

The flat is rather eclectic — to be expected, he supposes. There are several surprisingly cosy rugs, an assortment of mismatching furniture, a pair of cluttered bookshelves framing a fireplace, and various scientific instruments scattered on nearly every surface. On the mantel rests a human skull, which John suspects is real.

All in all, he likes the space. It feels somehow very… Sherlockian.

The kettle whistles shrilly, so he hurries to take it off the heat, then rummages around for mugs and tea bags. He is just starting to think about popping downstairs to get breakfast from the café when there is a cheery knock on the door.

“Morning!” Mrs. Hudson says brightly, entering the room with a tray of bacon, butter, marmalade, and scones dotted with sultanas. She spots John and beams at him, seeming unsurprised at his presence. “I just thought I’d bring up some breakfast.”

“Oh,” John blinks. “You didn’t need to do that.”

She shakes her head as she sets the tray down and straightens its contents. “Oh, I know. But don’t fuss, dear. The silly boy—” She jerks her head in the direction of the shower, “—wouldn’t eat much if it weren’t for me. He gets so focused on his work.”

John, who has already had to coax Sherlock to even eat soup, nods.

“Of course, now he has the two of us to feed him up,” she continues, now ferreting about in one of Sherlock’s drawers for plates and knives.

“I’ll do my best,” John says, shuffling his feet. He wishes he could assist her but is painfully aware he hasn’t the foggiest notion where Sherlock keeps his silverware. “I don’t cook much, though.”

She waves it off. “But you remember to eat.”

They share a laugh, and John is suddenly reminded of his own gran, nearly five years gone now. But Mrs. Hudson has the same kind manner undercut with a core of steel. Her obvious affection for Sherlock, not to mention her protective manner, sends relief through John. He is glad his boyfriend has had her to care for him.

“I must say, dear,” Mrs. Hudson adds in a softer voice. The water has shut off in the shower, and John expects Sherlock any minute. So he leans closer to her, sensing whatever she wants to say is not, perhaps, something Sherlock would want her to tell him. “I don’t know him to have ever had a relationship, and I’ve known him nearly four years. He wouldn’t ever say so, but he can get a bit lonely. He thinks he’s a bit of an odd duck, I fancy, and those scoundrels at his school certainly don’t help matters.” She frowns.

“Oh,” he says, not sure how to respond. Sherlock has never mentioned these school “scoundrels” before.

“So I’m very glad he’s found you. You seem a kind laddie, but I warn you,” she holds up a finger warningly. She’s buttering a scone, and John wonders if her holding a knife during this discussion is strategic rather than coincidental. “Take care of that boy.”

John blinks. “I will,” he promises, and concludes that yes, she definitely reminds him of his gran.

Before either of them can speak again, a door down the corridor opens and footsteps reach their ears. “John?”

The sound of Sherlock’s voice brings a grin springing to John’s face. “In here, you.”

Sherlock rounds the corner, wearing striped pyjama pants and an old, inside-out t-shirt under a navy dressing gown. His still-damp hair sticks a bit to his forehead and the nape of his neck, and his curls are even wilder than usual. When he sees John, his expression softens. However, when he sees Mrs. Hudson, he rolls his eyes and huffs in amusement and exasperation.

“Mrs. Hudson, what did you do?” he sighs, crossing the room and giving her a one-armed hug, which belies the irritation in his tone.

She chuckles and lightly smacks his arm. “Just a quick breakfast, you silly boy. You’re far too thin. Besides, I hoped to catch your charming young man. I’ve never met a famous author before.”

“You met him yesterday,” Sherlock protests, though John notices him eyeing the scone in her hand. With him distracted like this, Mrs. Hudson shoots John a wink.

“Well, I’ve never met a landlady who pulls double duty taking care of a genius science student before,” he winks back. “He seems like the type to be a bit disorganized.”

“You have no idea,” she agrees, grinning.

Sherlock makes a disgruntled noise at that, and lets go of Mrs. Hudson in favor of stepping around the table to stand near John. He seems only mildly offended they are teasing him, though.

“Yes, thank you Mrs. Hudson,” he says in a tone that does not quite reach full snappishness. “See you later. Or, hopefully, not. John and I have plans today.”

She laughs merrily — obviously not hurt at all by the dismissal — presses a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, then to John’s, and heads back downstairs. John touches the place she kissed in surprise, smiling.

“She’s wonderful,” he says.

Sherlock’s mouth is crammed with a marmalade-covered scone, but when he glances up at John, he smiles. His annoyed demeanor of an instant ago drops away. “She is,” he manages to say around his mouthful. “But don’t tell her I said that.”

John laughs and nods. They both sit down at the cluttered table, and John is just about to tuck in properly when he abruptly remembers the tea.

“Oh, shit, the tea,” he leaps up and makes for the mugs—

But Sherlock intercepts him. He seizes the first mug and sniffs it guardedly. “John,” he says sharply. “You… didn’t use _that_ kettle, did you?”

John frowns. “Of course I did, why?”

Sherlock bites down on his lip, then wordlessly dumps both mugs of tea straight into the sink.

“Sherlock?” John watches, perplexed.

“I… might have run an experiment using that kettle,” he mutters, “involving some decidedly _not_ edible substances, and I haven’t washed it out. But it was successful work, I’ll have you know,” he adds with a smirk.

John laughs, but glances at the kettle with concern. “Sorry, I didn’t know.”

“You couldn’t have,” Sherlock shrugs. He sets the mugs and kettle aside, frowning. “Though now I think about it, it might have been that kettle,” he nods at an older, copper kettle sitting — for some reason — on the bookcase in the sitting room.

John laughs. Sherlock’s apparent tunnel vision in regards to his chemistry tests reminds John of his own tendency to withdraw into a zone where he sees nothing but the document in front of him. “Well,” he looks around the kitchen. “Maybe we should skip kettles entirely, yeah?”

So they heat their water (using different mugs, to be safe) in the microwave, laughing about the tea blasphemy. This is by far the easiest, most comfortable morning John has ever had at a new lover’s home, he realizes. In fact, everything feels easy with Sherlock. Something about him seems to just _work_ with John; they complement each other, and even though John knows he still has a lot to learn about this man, he feels invigorated rather than intimidated.

So John watches, quite contentedly, as Sherlock eats. Only a scone and a bit of bacon, mind, but John is pleased nonetheless.

He chuckles when he notices a smear of marmalade on the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock’s eyebrows crinkle at the center. “What?”

In answer, John shifts his chair closer, pulls Sherlock in by the dressing gown, and snogs the sweet, sticky marmalade right off his boyfriend’s lips.

 

* * *

 

By the time they finish eating, John has gotten the feeling that Sherlock is on his best behavior. He suspects that under normal circumstances — such as when there _isn’t_ a brand new boyfriend in his flat — Sherlock would not be caught dead washing up. However, today, he stoops to doing so, cleaning the dishes from breakfast, the contaminated mugs, and both kettles.

John has migrated into the sitting room and settled in. He spots a laptop on a table. “Hey, Sherlock? Could I borrow this?”

Sherlock glances over his shoulder to see what John means. “Oh. Alright.”

The password turns out to be a long, complex series of numbers, symbols, and randomly capitalized letters. Sherlock has to call it out twice for John to get it right, but they get there in the end.

John signs in to his email first, finding a message from his agent, Mike Stamford. _Murder in Marylebone_ sales have been good, it seems, which is always what John wants to hear.

After he finishes going through the emails, he pulls up his documents, where he’s saved the notes on his new idea. He’d been writing them by hand days earlier, but has since transferred them to a digital format. Which is convenient, as he’s not at home and perfectly content to be so.

He manages to add a few notes regarding the plot of the second half of his new novel, which has so far been mostly question marks and vague fragments of sentences. However, something about sitting in this charmingly higgeldy-piggeldy space has helped. Now, he has a better idea of where the story will go before the end.

After a few minutes, however, he sighs. He isn’t old — he’s not even thirty yet, dammit eyes — but he has begun to need reading glasses on occasion. He forgets often, though, and catches himself squinting or his eyes aching a bit. So he locates his bag (discarded next to Sherlock’s bed), digs out his glasses, then returns to the sofa.

By this time, Sherlock is finishing washing up. John’s head jerks up when he hears an alarming bang from the kitchen. Sherlock has, evidently, turned around and rammed his hip into the corner of the table, setting the objects atop it rattling. His wide eyes are fixed on John, lips parted slightly.

“What?” John asks.

“Nothing,” Sherlock says far too quickly. He crosses the room and drops down next to John, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes keep flicking over to John’s face, though, which makes John start to suspect he is rather keen on the glasses.

To test this, keeping his eyes trained on the computer screen, John pushes them further up the bridge of his nose. In the periphery, he can see Sherlock blink rapidly, ears going pink.

“Wutayou—” Sherlock tries, then coughs to cover his fumble. “What are you working on?”

“My outline,” John grins, charmed.

“Do I get to see it?” Sherlock peers over his shoulder, but John shifts the laptop screen away from him.

“Not yet, you nosy sod,” John scolds. “Just because I told you a bit yesterday doesn’t mean this is ready for an audience. You can sit here, but don’t read what I’m writing.”

“Alright,” Sherlock grumps, though he seems content to nestle close to John’s side and scroll through his phone while John works.

At least, he’s content with that for a while.

“For heaven’s sake, John,” he bursts out after a few minutes. “Is this really how you type?”

“What?” John asks, looking down at his hands.

“You’re… pecking,” Sherlock imitates the movement with his index fingers. “How the ruddy hell do you write novels like this? Aren’t you a twenty-first century man? Can’t you type?”

“Oi,” John nudges him. “Who’s the published author here?”

Sherlock expression is amused, teasing. “I’m growing more and more confused as to… how. You work at, what, four words per minute?”

John rolls his eyes and, to get Sherlock to stop his stream of criticism, kisses him. Sherlock smiles against his lips, and soon they are both giggling. Giggling, and kissing, and grabbing at each other, the computer forgotten on John’s lap.

They would have continued in that vein were it not for a brisk knock on the door. Sherlock jerks back, eyes flying open wide. As he rises and makes for the door with a huff, John sets the laptop to the side.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Sherlock snaps, in a tone John hasn’t heard before — _frustrated, on guard, truculent_.

“Hello to you too,” says a cool voice in reply. “May I come in?”

Sherlock hesitates, and John stands, taking off his glasses. “Everything alright?”

Sherlock steps back, glancing around at John. Behind him stands a man, a few years older than John. He raises his eyebrows as he sees John.

“Ah, Mr. Watson, at last,” he says crisply, breezing past Sherlock into the sitting room. He wears a bespoke pinstripe suit, and John wonders who in their right mind would be so dressed up just to pay a social call. Or whatever this is. “Hello.”

Sherlock’s hands are on his hips as he moves back into the room after the newcomer. “What do you want?”

“I grew impatient waiting to meet your new… pal,” the man responds, and holds out a hand to John. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Watson.”

John hesitates, glancing at Sherlock, whose hackles are clearly up. “You too, Mr…?” he takes his hand.

“Don’t, John,” Sherlock says.

“Who is he?” John retreats from the handshake.

Sherlock sneers. “My archenemy.”

John almost laughs. People don’t have archenemies in real life. The other man seems torn between vexation and amusement. He rolls his eyes and turns back toward John.

“Mycroft Holmes,” he replies. “Sherlock’s brother. It seems he has not mentioned me.”

“Why should I?” Sherlock hisses. His fists are clenched at his sides now. He watches Mycroft cross the room and survey it with mild disinterest, as if it were a rental listing he has not intended to visit and is only lingering in to be polite to the real estate agent.

“So, Mr. Watson,” Mycroft begins, ignoring Sherlock. “I trust sales of your latest novel are going well?” he says the word _novel_ like it tastes unpleasant.

“I, erm… how do you know I’m a writer?” John shoots a glance at Sherlock, whose mouth twists into a painful-looking grimace.

“I make it my business to know about my brother’s… associates.”

John resists the urge to bristle. Firstly, he wants to correct Mycroft in the bluntest way possible, just to scandalise him a bit: _we’re boyfriends actually, and we spent the entirety of the previous night naked in his bed_. Yet he also wants to condemn Mycroft for his meddling, and so he chooses that course instead.

“You’re checking up on me?”

“He does that,” Sherlock snaps, scowling. “Constantly. Honestly, Mycroft, does the British government have nothing better to do than to interfere in every single aspect of my life?”

“Oh please, brother mine,” Mycroft scoffs. “You have always been so dramatic. When have I interfered in any of your choices?”

“When you pulled strings at university to ensure I got a private room, though I didn’t ask you to, _brother_ ,” Sherlock laces the last word with fierce derision. “Or when you scrutinized all my professors, making them uncomfortable and predisposed to dislike me. Or when you did the same to most of my classmates. Can you not simply trust me to take care of myself?”

“Please, Sherlock, was I wrong to look into those people?”

Sherlock glares. “Some of them, yes.”

“If I may…” John cuts in. “Mycroft, I don’t know you. I’d really rather you not investigate my background.”

“Have you something to hide, Mr. Watson?” Mycroft’s eyebrows lift.

John does not allow his gaze to drop an inch; rather, he lifts his chin and sends his most steely stare at the taller man. “If I did, do you really think I would tell you?”

Sherlock chokes on a soft laugh. Mycroft blinks, and John thinks he detects a flicker of something akin to admiration on his face. Clearly, people don’t usually fight back against Mycroft Holmes.

“Mr. Watson,” he says after a moment. “Might I beg you for a word in private?”

That takes John by surprise. He flicks a glance at Sherlock, who has frozen. “Yeah, alright.”

He and Mycroft proceed onto the landing and close the door behind them. Mycroft watches him for a moment, and only that look — _intense, penetrating, dissecting_ — convinces John this man is indeed a blood relative of Sherlock’s. Because while they do not look alike, that expression, as if he is seeing far more than John can fathom, feels eerily familiar.

“Is this the part where you threaten to have me offed if I hurt your brother?” John asks with a feeble laugh.

“Please,” Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Don’t be tiresome. From what I can tell, you are not unintelligent. Surely I need not spell out such a warning. Rather, I have a small request.”

“Oh?” John tilts his head. “What’s that?”

“You seem to be sensible. Surely you have discerned by now that my brother is unique. He thinks differently than most people. I cannot tell why he might have elected to throw his lot in with you…” Mycroft pauses appraisingly, stare still unwavering. “But it seems he has made a decision he has never made before in terms of… relationships. Therefore, I wonder if you might do me a service.”

John waits, but Mycroft pauses a moment, as if for effect. And he calls his brother dramatic.

“If you intend on remaining in his company,” he glares, as if to warn — again — that to do otherwise at this point would be unsafe, “perhaps you could keep me apprised of his wellbeing?”

“You want me to _spy_ on your brother?” John gapes.

“Nothing so ugly,” Mycroft waves a hand dismissively. “Only tell me what he is up to. I worry—”

“No,” John says. “I don’t think so.”

“You would be compensated.”

“I don’t need the money, thanks.” John clenches his fists, mirroring Sherlock from earlier. “I’m perfectly comfortable financially as is. And I am certainly not comfortable helping you spy on my boyfriend, who obviously doesn’t want or need your help with anything.”

Mycroft considers his response, as well as his use of the word “boyfriend,” for several long moments before finally nodding. “Very well, Mr. Watson.”

John nods curtly back, then makes to stride back into the flat. At the last moment however, Mycroft speaks again.

“You’re very loyal, very quickly.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” John spins around. “I’m dating him, I like him, so is it such a surprise I’m unwilling to _spy on him_ for a man I’ve only just met?”

“Perhaps not,” Mycroft tilts his head. “Still, already spending the night. Should I anticipate hearing a happy announcement in another few days?”

“Listen,” John says, voice lowered but tense. “My relationship with your brother is none of your bloody business. So back off.”

Mycroft lifts an eyebrow. He does not reply for a moment, only looks John up and down, as if x-raying him. “Do you know what is interesting about you, Mr. Watson?”

John doesn’t give him the satisfaction of replying. He just lifts his chin and waits.

“When others walk through London, they see streets and buildings and cars. You walk through London and see stories.” He pauses. “I wonder what story you see when you look at my brother. I wonder how long your interest in it, and in him, will last.”

John rather wants to hit him. How dare he? He doesn’t even know John. How dare he imply that John, so enchanted and fascinated with Sherlock Holmes, will not do his utmost to stay, to ensure the fragile heart Sherlock tries to hide is taken care of?

Instead of hitting Mycroft, however, John smiles. “Well. You’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?” And he turns on his heel, opens the door, and barges back into the sitting room.

Sherlock is by the window, wringing his hands. When Mycroft follows John back in, however, he snaps upright. John notices — and has to fight the sudden, absurd urge to laugh when he does — that Sherlock seems to be holding his spine as straight as possible, to gain the inch his brother has over him.

“Are you quite finished?” Sherlock asks. His voice is strained, and John moves to squeeze his hand.

Mycroft eyes them, then nods. “I am.”

“Good,” Sherlock says. The two siblings stare each other down for a moment, seeming to have a silent conversation John has no hope of following. “I hope your trip to Singapore proved fruitful for the election proceedings.”

“And what makes you think it was Singapore?” Mycroft asks challengingly.

Sherlock snorts. “You didn’t change your clothing before coming here from the airport, you amateur. And I’m not an idiot.”

“Fine,” Mycroft waves a dismissive hand. “But the business I had there was, as usual, none of yours.”

“A lovely change from your usual day to day butting in, then.”

“Alright,” John mutters under his breath, squeezing Sherlock’s hand hard. “Well, thank you for stopping by, Mycroft. It was…” He was going to say _nice to meet you_ , but knew it would sound entirely insincere. “Well, thanks for stopping by.”

Mycroft nods, obviously sensing John’s internal struggle. “Indeed. It was a…” he pauses, considering just as John had a moment ago, and fixing him with that almost frightening stare again, “pleasure to meet you, Mr. Watson. I do hope you know what you’re getting into with him.”

“I do,” John replies through his teeth. With his eyes, he tries to tell Mycroft: _I hope you know what you’re getting into with me_.

Mycroft’s eyebrows, he thinks, raise slightly while he shakes John’s hand. Then, he nods at Sherlock before at last leaving. John waits until he hears the front door open and close, then turns to face his boyfriend.

“Well, that was… different.”

Sherlock makes a low growling sound before pulling his hand from John’s grasp and whirling away. He drags his fingers through his hair. “I apologize,” he says under his breath. “My brother is the most insufferable, pompous arse in the universe. He irks me more than any other human being.” Sherlock is pacing now, aggravation emanating off him like sunbeams — fiery and potentially dangerous. John watches, a bit at a loss.

“How dare he come here to meddle,” Sherlock continues. “And what was that about you knowing what you’re getting into? As if _he_ has any knowledge of how to have a relationship!”

“Well, if you’re worried,” John says, keeping his voice soft and placating. He’s never seen Sherlock this manic. He steps forward tentatively. Sherlock moves backwards, though, still looking perturbed. “I think I’ve a fairly okay idea what I’m getting into. You’re handsome and brilliant. Just my type, really.”

Sherlock bites his lip, but the action cannot fully disguise his smile. Encouraged, John continues. “Sherlock, er… I feel I should tell you. He offered me money to keep him informed of how you are,” John admits, shuffling his feet. He leaves out the rest, about Mycroft both admiring John’s loyalty and doubting his tendency to remain so. Sherlock seems upset enough without knowing that.

Sherlock pauses. “Did you take him up on it?”

“What?” John’s mouth drops open. “No, of course not!”

Sherlock shrugs. “Shame. We could have split the fee.”

Startled, John laughs, and even Sherlock’s lips twitch. “I’ll consider that next time,” John says, approaching again. This time, Sherlock lets him, meeting him halfway and slipping his arms around John’s waist.

“You stood up to him,” Sherlock marvels. “That was… good.”

John strokes a hand down his chest, then up to his collarbone. Under the touch, Sherlock shivers and leans in. “Of course I did. You were clearly on guard with him. I couldn’t not, seeing you like that.”

Sherlock beams at him. “Thank you.”

John kisses him, light and quick, before pulling back again to regard him. “Question for you, though. How did you know he’d been to Singapore? What does he do?”

“He’d tell you he occupies a minor position in the British government,” Sherlock explains. “But it’s more than that. He’s rising through the ranks quickly, and growing more intolerable all the while.”

“And Singapore?”

“Oh, that. Obvious,” Sherlock smirks. “If he didn’t want me to bring it up, he really should have showered and changed clothes and hidden under a large cardboard box to talk to me, rather than coming straight here after getting off the plane.”

“But how do you know…?”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “Do… do you really want to hear?”

“Of course.”

“Oh,” Sherlock blinks, as if thrown entirely off balance. “Well, for one thing, he’s clearly tired. He always has a tendency to blink twice as often when he’s been travelling. That, and his watch was still set on SGT, eight hours ahead of Greenwich. He must _really_ be jet-lagged to not have fixed that yet. And, of course, there’s the faintest, but quite telling, scent of _laksa_ lingering on him. A sort of noodle soup,” Sherlock adds in response to the confused question that springs to John’s lips. “He favoured it last time he went there, and there’s one restaurant he always goes to that uses a very distinctive blend of coconut milk and curry spices.”

“And you could smell it on him?” John asks in wonder. God, he has known Sherlock is intelligent, but these powers of observation…

Sherlock nods, fidgeting under John’s fingers as if embarrassed. “He’s been to Singapore three times in the last two months, and though he won’t tell me what it’s really about, I’m sure it has to do with elections. He’s so tediously smug now he’s privy to _classified information_ ,” Sherlock rolls his eyes spectacularly.

“Whose elections? Theirs or ours?” John asks. “Actually, never mind. Probably best I don’t know too many details.”

Sherlock chuckles. “Probably.”

“Still, Sherlock, that’s amazing, how you figured all that out.”

“You think so?”

“Of course I do!” John grins. “It’s extraordinary, how you took little details and came to a conclusion like that. It’s very Sherrinford, if I’m being honest.”

At that, Sherlock’s cheeks bloom with red, and he ducks his chin. John sees his small smile, though, and tilts his head back up with two fingers. He strokes his thumb across his boyfriend’s lips, which curl into a pleased grin under it, and which pucker to kiss the pad of John’s thumb.

“Is it?” he asks, pleased.

“Yes,” John nods, not removing his thumb. “I have to tell you, those passages where Sherrinford figures everything out were the hardest parts of writing. I always became very aware of my own lack of intelligence during those scenes. I wish I’d known you then; you could have helped me make them sound impressive and logical.”

“You did alright on your own.” Sherlock murmurs, eyes flickering down and away, but he still smiles.

“Only because I knew how the crime was done in advance, because they were fictional! You’re actually figuring these things out!”

Sherlock huffs, shaking his head. “You know, this isn’t how most people react to hearing my deductions.”

“Yeah?” John presses his lips together. He remembers Mrs. Hudson earlier, speaking of “scoundrels” at school, and Sherlock’s low self-esteem. “How do people usually react, then?”

“Not so enthusiastically or admiringly,” Sherlock mutters. “It… it doesn’t matter.” But he quickly seems to shake off whatever he is thinking that’s making his forehead wrinkle, and starts to smile again. “What does matter is you went against Mycroft wearing nothing but a dressing gown.”

John glances down. He’s forgotten in the last few minutes, but yes, he is indeed wearing _only_ the burgundy garment. He feels his own face heat and buries it in his hands.

“Well, that’s humiliating.”

Sherlock laughs and tugs away his hands. “Don’t be an idiot. Anything that has even a chance of ruffling Mycroft’s feathers is brilliant, not humiliating.”

John looks up at him, at his smile, and finds himself marveling at the situation — he is the one blushing this time, Sherlock the one reassuring. John hopes he can continue to make Sherlock feel this way. Because the man may be new to all this, but seeing him at ease and confidently declaring his deductions gives John hope.

So he tugs Sherlock close, kissing him. Sherlock returns it, and John laughs against his soft mouth as his boyfriend pushes the dressing gown off his shoulders.

Yes, keeping Sherlock feeling this way sounds like a worthwhile goal indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> There’s not really any meta info for this one, but man, lots more of _A Study in Pink_ crept in here than I expected!
> 
> Fun fact: Today is the the first birthday of _A Novel Meeting_! (Also, complete coincidence, it’s also the day Sherlock and John solve _A Study in Pink_ in the show!) Thanks to everyone who’s been following this series; you have all been so lovely and supportive this past year. 
> 
> Also, if anyone’s interested to know, I’ve outlined this entire series, and started drafting a couple upcoming installments. There will be eleven stories in this series in total, so we’re not even halfway done, and I’m so excited to share the rest of this adventure with you!


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